For Our Mother

Words Jaleh Sadravi 
Illustration by Tressa Gonzalez 

She is calling to us,
her voice carried in the wind,
soft yet urgent,
like the whisper of leaves before a storm.
We feel her ache in the cracked earth,
in rivers that no longer sing,
in forests that fall silent. 

Our ancestors knew her rhythms,
their hands in the soil,
their feet on the paths
worn smooth by reverence.
They spoke to her in rituals,
in fires and songs,
asking for her blessings,
offering gratitude for her gifts.
They knew what we have forgotten:
that we are not apart from her—
we are her. 

And now, as her cries grow louder,
we gather,
bearing both the wisdom of the past
and the fierce hope of the future.
We plant seeds,
not just in the soil,
but in minds and hearts,
radical ideas taking root,
spreading like wildflowers. 

The work is heavy,
but we share it—
our hands blistered from planting,
our voices hoarse from shouting,
our spirits fueled by the knowledge
that this is a fight we cannot lose.
For every tree saved,
every river cleaned,
is a promise
to those who will come after us. 

Hope is not a passive thing;
it is the work of tending,
of refusing to look away,
of standing firm
when the odds seem too steep.
It is in the hands of those who march,
who teach,
who reclaim what has been lost. 

And so we carry our Mother Earth,
her beauty and her wounds,
her ancient wisdom and her fragile future.
We speak her name with reverence,
with urgency,
knowing that our love for her
must be more than words—
it must be action,
a daily labor of love.

One day,
if we listen,
if we learn,
if we fight,
the forests may sing again,
the rivers may run clear,
and the winds may carry
a softer song.
And when that day comes,
we will knowthat we stood together,
that we saved her,
and in saving her,
we saved ourselves